


A Boy's Best Friend

by Anonymous



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Non-Despair, Fantasy Komaeda/Hinata, Masturbation, Object Insertion, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Komaeda knows better than anyone that if you want something done right, then it's best to do it yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Boy's Best Friend

   From the way the internet tells it, fingering seems to be some kind of rite of passage for gay kids.

   Which is fine. Really, it is. It makes him buzz with anxiety to think about, but he knows it's better and safer to get himself experienced with that area before it's in someone else's hands. Or someone else's hands are in him. Whichever.

  
   The only problem is that nobody talks about it. There's nowhere to read about it. They don't teach it in schools, despite the awkward admissions in health class about how masturbation is normal and healthy - and yes, for girls too - but never go into detail about the more delicate practices.

   It's a matter of safety. Sometimes he bites his thumbnail, eyes Hinata from across the room wonders what he'd think if Komaeda just brought it up. Just raised his hand and asked about the finer points. He smiles to himself. Of course, it would be nothing short of sinful to bring /that/ up, to insult the teaching staff at Hope's Peak with that kind of perverse behaviour - but really, he needs to know.

   Video research doesn't go well. In fact, he's not sure it could go worse. He holes up in his bed with the lights out, lube at the ready, and finds himself confronted with a sparse collection of appropriate videos; some of boys spread out with large and foreign latex-covered hands deep inside them, others alone, contorted into ridiculous positions, clearly unaroused, pressured, and in pain.

   He closes his laptop lid hard, throat unpleasantly tight.

   He should have known better.

 

   It's days later when he's sitting on the floor, sorting through his school things for the next day when he finds them. In his gym bag, nestled between the polo shirt and the ridiculous tiny black shorts, there's royal-blue fabric patterned with white and Komaeda knows for a fact that they do /not/ belong to him.

   He swears his heart stops for a moment. He lifts them out, waistband hooked on one finger, slowly, like an archaeologist uncovering a fossil. He's seen little glimpses of these before, and there's absolutely no mistaking who they belong to - not when those glimpses were pretty unforgettable to begin with.

   He drops the boxers back in the bag and for one horrific, dirty moment the idea to take advantage of this mistake is all that flashes through his head.

   Hinata would never know. How could he? Komaeda would simply wash them and hand them back with a smile, after... the image overwhelms him, and he closes his eyes, swallowing hard. He can't decide if it would be hotter to jerk off with them wrapped around his dick, or to /wear/ them - they're both so creepy and invasive that in the end he just zips the bag up and retreats to his bedroom without it, nerves buzzing with excitement, almost ripping his trousers off in an effort to get them off and out of the way.

   The bedroom is his favourite room in the apartment. Spacious and modern, with a good view; at this hour, with the sun setting, it casts warmth right into his large, plush bed. He throws himself down in the middle of it, stripping quickly for the occasion. He fumbles for the lube bottle, flips the cap open and, in his hurry, drizzles far too much onto his palm.

   He stares at the mess for a moment before he shrugs, wipes some off on his other hand, and gets to work.

   Komaeda lays back with his head on the pillows, legs parted, eyes closed. He usually likes to tease himself first, draw it out; but his dick is already hard and straining, desperate for /some/ kind of relief to cope with the images streaming through his head. To think that those boxers, mere /fabric/, had touched Hinata in all the intimate places Komaeda wants to - to think they're sitting right in his living room, right /there/, and he could be rubbing them all over himself like some kind of pervert right now, if he wants to stoop to that level.

   But then, how does someone even put their underwear in the wrong bag in the first place? They aren't even all that similar looking, and Hinata /always/ changes in a stall instead of out by the lockers anyway. It seems like a difficult mistake to make. He can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, Hinata did it on purpose-?

   Komaeda hadn't noticed that his other hand has been absently stroking over his thighs, down into the crease between his leg and pelvis, creeping lower, still slick with the extra lube. He closes his eyes tighter and lets his touch wander to where his body obviously wants it. It feels nice; cool fingertips brushing over his hole, more sensitive than he thought.

   He spreads his legs wider and pushes inside, tensing all over when his finger slides right in with almost no resistance. His breathing is fast and shallow as he tries to adjust. But he doesn't really have to. It's hot inside, and he can feel the stretch, but it doesn't hurt at all.

   He bites his lip and wonders if maybe he was made for this.

 

  
   After the first time, it's hard to stop.

   Which is great and terrible, really, because on one hand he comes so hard he swears he sees stars most of the time, and it's hard to complain about that.

   The downside is that according to the rest of the world, he's the only one who does it. With the combination of the porn sites and the health class and the conversations he sits through at school where Souda and Hanamura loudly discuss their masturbatory habits and try to get everyone else in on it, which results only in blushes all around - it all feels a little lonely.

   Like he should be sharing this new-found realm of pleasure instead of keeping it all to himself.

   Which sends him tumbling down into a rabbithole of new fantasies, because of course it does.

   Fantasies that creep up on him when Hinata invites him to the library to study one day, just the two of them, and he has to sit there for two hours and watch the younger boy thoughtfully sucking on the tip of his pen, nibbling and occasionally /licking/ over the plastic. Komaeda feels himself getting hot under the collar just seeing that. That, and the way he flushes pink when Komaeda returns his boxers as politely as he can, and stammers a thank you in that cute way he does, hands twisting anxiously in front of him as they say goodbye.

   It has Komaeda fucking himself with his fingers more frantically than usual when he gets home, two of them knuckle-deep in him, his back arched and heels digging into the mattress. He parts his lips and accepts the waves of guilt as he moans aloud. "Hinata," is all that comes to mind, and he breathes the boy's name over and over again. "/Ahh/, Hinata, Hinata...!"

   And he doesn't /want/ his fingers anymore. All he wants is to feel Hinata inside him, to be fucked messily and mercilessly, and there's no way to simulate that, not without-

   His eyes fly open and he glances frantically around the room for something, /anything/ that's close enough. He comes up blank with an empty water bottle, a wax candle that's about as thick as his fist, a figurine that's far too frail - and /god/, what is the /matter/ with him? - but just before he gives up hope, he his gaze catches the hairbrush on his vanity and he lets out a breath of shaky relief.

   And all at once he understands just why so many people end up in the emergency room with glassware and Wii controllers and produce and whatever else stuck inside themselves.

   Because in the heat of the moment, with a mind full of static and a body craving more, it turns out to be /very/ difficult to make good decisions.

   His thought processes flatline complete as he gets up, practically running across the room to grab the hairbrush and return to bed, throwing himself down on the mattress and fumbling for the lube. The handle is smooth, hard, black plastic with a couple of interesting ridges. It's not wider than his two fingers, but after a moment of evaluation, he decides the girth is definitely more substantial. Unable to wipe the small smile off his face, he coats it liberally and falls onto his back, shifting around to get comfortable before he presses the tip of it to his hole without a second thought.

   His eyes fall closed, and he tries to relax back into his fantasies. He pushes the first inch or so inside, past the still-tight muscle, and tries to imagine Hinata's voice in his head, gently encouraging him. His body doesn't have the natural resistance he expected it to, doesn't seem to know or care that this is a foreign object, but that doesn't do much to calm him down. It slips in easier when he ignores the cold, unliving nature of the hairbrush handle and imagines Hinata is fingering him instead. His legs are, after all, spread wide enough for the object of his affections to sit comfortably between them, two fingers deep inside him, letting him adjust.

   He can picture it with perfect clarity. Hinata naked, his gorgeously-toned stomach working with shallows breaths, all flushed and turned on just from watching Komaeda squirm.

   When the wide flare of the brush's head presses a line against his skin, he pictures Hinata's knuckles there instead. And it feels strange. Ever-present, like it not being a part of him just makes it more... /there/.

   He doesn't dare to look down. He squeezes his eyelids shut tight and thinks of Hinata looking instead, praising Komaeda for taking his fingers so well. He moves them as Komaeda begins to move his own wrist, drawing the handle a few inches out and then pushing back in again, toes curling into the sheets at the sensation.

   It drags. Hinata's fingers drag along his inner walls, searching, probing for his sweet spot. Hinata angles his wrist, his eyes all dark with lust, and Komaeda tightens his hold on the head of the brush, pushing it down to hit that point he knows is there, if he could just-

   "Hinata-!" he yelps, legs jerking at the unmistakable brush of plastic over his prostate.

   He takes a shaky breath, steadying himself, and then he doesn't let up. He hammers the thing inside, over and over again, going rougher than he really needs to because it feels so dirty and pathetic. In his head, Hinata tells him as much.

   "So needy," he says, his even tone a stark contrast to Komaeda's hoarse and desperate moans, coming involuntary at this point. "Fucking yourself with a hairbursh," he continues, mocking, and Komaeda has no idea /why/ he would say that because in the fantasy there /is/ no hairbrush but he doesn't care anymore, his back arching, hips lift right up off the bed as he goes harder, harder, harder. "You'd let me watch, wouldn't you?"

   "Yeah..." Komaeda manages to gasp out to the empty room. There's no air in his lungs anymore, and he's so close even though his free hand is fisted in the sheets, his dick hard and neglected against his stomach. He would tell Hinata that he doesn't want him to watch, wants it to be him, wants him to- "F-fuck me," he whines, slamming the handle in and crying out at the slap of the plastic against his ass. He gets louder. "Fuck me!"

   Hinata wraps his hand around Komaeda's cock, and he can feel it - feel that practised ease, and the way Hinata's fingers are thicker and calloused where Komaeda's are slender and baby-soft. He could cry with how good the sudden touch feels.

   He drops back onto the bed, jerking himself off, treating himself to a few last powerful thrusts from the brush before he comes with an incomprehensible cry, and it's the moment that he topples over the edge that he hears the /crack/ sound.

   He can't stop. He can't even think. All he can do is lie there, stroking himself and shuddering as he comes harder than he ever has in his life, splattering himself all the way up to his chin and struggling to breathe through it. He says Hinata's name one last time, sighing it out in a reverent thank you just before he finally opens his eyes.

   It's then that he realises that at some point, the hand holding the brush had ended up beside his head on the pillow. It's still definitely holding the bristle-end, but he's also /definitely/ still full, and-

   His entire body goes rigid with the sudden terror.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not sure whether or not i'll continue this, so while it's marked as complete, it may or may not have more parts in the future. ^^


End file.
